Grapes Without Pips
by Hutchie
Summary: A "Man Without A Past" Tag.      Bodie snorted, his eyes snapping wrath.  "You're a jigsaw, Raymond Doyle!


with beta thanks to **ILWB **:)

**Grapes Without Pips**

A "Man Without A Past" Tag

by Allie

Bodie's mood was dark as he emerged from Claire's room and stalked down the hospital corridor, flowerless, girlfriendless.

He heard the strained voice of Doyle, near cracking.

"Hold up, luv, just hold up a minute."

Bodie detoured to the room that housed his friend. The pretty but perhaps over-determined nurse was shoving his shoes on his feet. Doyle grimaced, sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his jeans and all those bandages wrapped around his chest. His face looked strained and tired, and the nurse was really going for it, shoeing him with a vengeance.

"Thought you were staying in longer for observation?" asked Bodie.

Doyle opened his eyes wearing a pained expression, and tried to smile. He looked world-weary and exhausted. "Yeeeah." The word held half an ironic laugh. "Turns out they need the bed."

"Need the bed?" Bodie stepped into the room. "Where's the doctor?"

"Down the corridor?" suggested Doyle, squinting in pain and closing his eyes again.

Bodie immediately strode off in that direction. Here perhaps he'd found an outlet for his impotent wrath. Even though everything was over now, villains captured or dead, Claire and Doyle both alive, he still felt furious and powerless, and somehow overwhelmed by everything that had happened. It left him feeling raw inside, irritable and angry.

"What's this about sending Doyle home?" he demanded of the doctor, with no thought of what he may be interrupting. The patient being examined (a shirtless, balding man), blinked at him myopically in a mix of alarm and indignation.

"Do you mind?" said the patient.

"Yeah, I mind." Bodie addressed the doctor. "Why are you sending Doyle home? He was supposed to be kept in for observation."

"We've run short of beds. He should be fine, but if his symptoms grow worse, he's to return at once. He agreed to go—"

"I don't care what he agreed to!" exploded Bodie.

The ginger-bearded doctor scowled at him. "An elderly woman with acute pneumonia will have to do without a bed if your friend stays. He agreed to go, and I don't see what you have to do with it." He turned back to his patient, dismissing Bodie.

"Yeah, well how's he supposed to get back here if he takes a turn for the worse?" snarled Bodie.

"I asked him if he had someone to keep a watch on him, and he said yes."

"The nerve," growled Bodie. He turned and stalked back down the hall, and to Doyle's soon-to-be-vacated bed. He'd managed to slip on a leather jacket over his bandages. Shirtless, bandaged, in ragged jeans and shoes, he looked both disreputable and in pain. And very tired.

"Lovely, thanks so much for volunteering me," Bodie said in a smooth, sarcastic voice. "Supposed to play nursemaid am I? Can't you even ask?"

Doyle's face flicked into a quick smile, and was back to impassive and tired almost immediately. "Well you never brought me grapes."

"And that's my punishment?"

"Actually, I was going to call Sarah."

"Sarah." Bodie snorted. The latest girlfriend? She was a flighty soul, probably go to pieces if Doyle actually did need help. Or forget to watch him and leave because he 'seemed fine.' "Well, I'm here now." Bodie moved forward to help him rise from the bed, taking his arm. "Might as well help you home."

Doyle moved slowly, grimacing, taking breaths as shallow as he could. Bodie's wrath diminished a bit as he remembered how painful it was to breathe with broken ribs. He bit his tongue and kept back the words of reproach that threatened to spill from him.

He kept silent on the slow trek down the hospital corridor. Doyle stood very straight and stiff. They took the lift.

"I can make it myself, you know," said Doyle, rather faint and breathless as he walked stiffly towards the hospital doors.

"Pardon me while I laugh."

Doyle shot him a dark look, and kept walking, slow and miserable-looking. Bodie grimaced inwardly. He hated seeing his partner like this, the fierce, wiry man brought low by yet another injury. It seemed to happen far too often. The same way Bodie's girlfriends lately seemed to find nothing but trouble from their association with him. As if everyone Bodie's life touched was cursed...

He shook away the asinine thought; it hadn't been his fault about the bomb, and it certainly wasn't his fault Doyle had run off without backup. After all, Cowley had taken Bodie off the case, and if Doyle was too stupid to arrange someone else to cover his back, well, then it was just his own fault, wasn't it?

"Honestly, I'd rather go alone than have you glowering at me the whole way back," said Doyle. "What did I do, anyway?"

"You don't want me to answer that." He got the door of his Capri open for Doyle.

Doyle worked his way in with difficulty, accepting a hand to help but only briefly, and finally settled himself carefully, fumbling awkwardly with his seatbelt.

"Why don't I want you to answer that?" asked Doyle, raising his voice over the engine as Bodie began to drive.

"Stands to reason," said Bodie. "You don't want me to glare at you, you wouldn't want me to yell at you."

Doyle turned a startled blink on him, and stared. "Yell at me? What did I do? I'm not the one who charged off and went 'round Cowley and got picked up by the cops—"

"No, you're the one who ran off without backup and nearly got himself run over, tortured, and killed. Could've at least taken Murphy or someone with you!" He slammed the gas pedal down as he weaved through traffic, his wrath making him drive all the faster.

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Doyle and realised with a pang that the car's jerk forward had slammed Doyle back into his seat, jarring his broken ribs.

Bodie made a conscious effort to slow down. "Are you at least taking your pain pills?" When Doyle didn't answer, Bodie glanced over at him. Doyle, looking pale and angry (and very preoccupied) nodded. Bodie slowed down a little further. "About due?"

"Forty minutes," came the strained reply. "And we'll finish this conversation later."

Damn. He was bad off if he wasn't even up to arguing.

Bodie drove the rest of the way to Doyle's flat in silence, and then helped him out of the car, jaw set, silent and disapproving. It gnawed at his insides, seeing Doyle so hurt, especially when there was nothing he could do. The feeling wouldn't go away that he should've prevented it, somehow or other.

They slowly walked down the pavement to the flat. As they neared it, a car accelerated round the corner. Doyle flinched at the sound of its approach.

"It's not going to jump the curb and get you, you know," said Bodie. At the same time, he moved protectively between Doyle and the street.

His partner sent him a very cold look. "I know that. I'll call Sarah. Just go," said Doyle at the door, fumbling with his key.

Bodie took it from him and opened the flat. "Like hell." Even though he really wanted to take him up on it, he knew he couldn't. He'd just spend the night worrying about Doyle. It was different if he was in hospital. Different from having a flighty girlfriend providing questionable surveillance of the injured Doyle. Probably go haring off after half an hour and Doyle'd let her, saying he could handle it himself.

And he was doing that quite well lately, wasn't he?

They got inside, and Doyle sat at the kitchen table, as if he had no more strength in him, and briefly closed his eyes. "Just go. I don't want your angry face staring at me."

"Come on. You're going to bed." Bodie grasped wrists and pulled Doyle to his feet—a funny little gasping sound he made. Not so funny, really.

In the hospital, Bodie had had to struggle to find a spot that wasn't hurt, where he could kiss Claire. Even if she said she never wanted to see him again, he wanted it to end the right way.

Now, he wished very much that he could find a spot that wasn't hurt on Doyle so he could slap him. "Stop getting hurt!" he wanted to shout.

But of course it would do no good. Doyle being Doyle, he seemed to just attract broken arms and ribs and pain of all sorts, a rag doll tossed to and fro by villains, without the sense to know when he was in too deep. Thought he was invincible, didn't he?

Now that Bodie thought about it, he was always having to save Doyle's back side, wasn't he?

Well, maybe sometimes it was the other way round, but he was too angry to give those times much thought right now.

"Stop it," said Doyle, tugging irritably to be free, his face screwing up with pain. "Stop pulling!"

Bodie stopped. He let Doyle set the pace to the bedroom and hovered along next to him, frowning. He yanked back the covers so Doyle could sit, helped him off with his leather jacket, then knelt in front of him and undid his shoes.

"Can do it myself," muttered Doyle.

"Yeah, right—lean the whole way over and touch your toes?" mocked Bodie. He yanked the second shoe off, and moved to build up a pile of pillows so Doyle could stay sitting up. He knew he wouldn't be comfortable lying flat just yet.

Bodie took Doyle's arm—another flicker of pain on his partner's strained face—and helped him sit back. He stared into his partner's clouded gaze. "Need a glass of water?"

"Yes please. Then call Sarah, and—"

"Shut up." He went to get the water.

He returned and waited while Doyle drank it. "Need anything else?"

Doyle shook his head.

Bodie moved forward and pulled the sheet up over him, starting to tuck it round him and then hastily changing his mind. Damn man was too hurt to even tuck a sheet round. "Pain pills?"

Doyle cracked one eye open, glanced at his wristwatch. Shook his head. He closed his eyes again, leaning back against the pillow.

With an aggrieved sigh, Bodie plopped into a chair and tried to reconcile himself to a grumpy evening and night of Doyle tending.

And he very carefully did not think about the appalling contrast in weight and fighting class between a Yank car and a slim ex-policeman.

This not-thinking would likely haunt his dreams, as the not-thinking about bombs in restaurants already did.

All the same, he kept watch...

##

Doyle woke with a start, the squeal of tires, the growl of an engine and the horrible crunch of impact echoing in his head.

He looked around, blinking frantically, expecting to find himself in a claustrophobic room, tied helplessly—

Instead, he was propped among the pillows in his own bedroom. With Bodie sitting cross-legged on a chair across from him, glaring at him.

Bodie was just putting down a magazine. "Now can you take your pain pill?"

Doyle stared at his watch, blinking till the numbers cleared and settled. He'd slept almost twenty minutes past when it was due! Must've been really tired to sleep at all. He nodded, and Bodie surged from his chair, fetched the pills with haughty confidence, and a glass of water, and watched while Doyle took them both.

He felt a bit better almost immediately, the knowledge that relief was on the way mixing gladly with the rest from the catnap he'd grabbed. Now he even felt up to tackling Bodie.

"What's up with you, anyway? Usually you're all good cheer and helpful if I'm hurt."

"Maybe I'm sick of picking up the pieces. 'Specially when you can't be bothered to ask for backup."

Doyle laughed—and stopped himself quickly at the knife-pain in his ribs. "Yeah, right," he said a bit breathlessly. "And you always get backup if you have to work without me!"

"You weren't undercover. There was no reason you couldn't have backup."

"Just a routine—"

"And how many routine times are you going to almost get yourself killed before you start taking it seriously?" demanded Bodie. "Listen, mate, I'd love to watch your back 24/7 but I'm just not up to it. We work separately sometimes. So have a care, get Murphy or someone when I'm not available. Because if you think I like this babysitting you and fetching you grapes—"

"You didn't fetch me grapes. You very pointedly did not fetch me grapes. You buy grapes for Cowley, flowers for half the ward, but it was too much trouble to bring anything for me. Or even just stay and talk for a minute—"

Bodie snorted, his eyes snapping wrath. "You're a jigsaw, Raymond Doyle! You keep coming apart and they keep fitting you back together! A man could go broke just buying you grapes and visiting each time."

Doyle blinked back the hurting dampness of his eyes. Must be the painkillers. Yeah...

"You get hurt too."

"Do not. Not so much as you. You keep this up and—and you'll be no good to CI-5, or me, or anyone."

"Keep this up? I hardly went out and played chicken with that car, did I?"

"Russian roulette, more like. Nobody to watch your back, tackling madmen—you just never learn, do you?"

Doyle looked away. There was no reasoning with Bodie right now. He'd been worked up since the bombing. It wasn't fair to take it out on Doyle, but Bodie probably wouldn't be able to talk about this reasonably until some time had passed. And until then, he'd be flinging all this blame, and—Doyle very much wished he would leave. Just leave.

It was awful enough to ache everywhere from the beating and the car and being tied up and thrown around. It was worse to have his partner's recriminations on top, instead of the consideration and silliness he could usually count on Bodie for in the event of pain.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say "Get out of my flat."

But he was a grown man. He ought to be able to handle a little unreasonable verbal manhandling. Sending Bodie away in anger would only start a real fight, a simmering fight that might last longer than his rib pain, and that wouldn't be worth it for a few minutes of silence, righteous indignation, and self-pity.

So instead he tightened his jaw and did not say a word, and stared at the wall very pointedly.

After a few moments, Bodie asked in a subdued voice, "Anything you need?"

"Ice cream," said Doyle, without thinking, letting out the first words that popped into his head. Indeed it did sound good, that comforting food from childhood, that rare treat that he ate even more rarely these days as an adult. As a child, he'd thought he would buy such things all the time, when he was old enough to afford them. Instead, he ate healthy most of the time, sometimes even things that his parents would've turned their noses up at, much less that the younger version of himself would have.

"Right." Bodie jumped up and stalked into the kitchen.

"Bodie..." Doyle sighed. "I don't have any. I was just thinking out loud."

The front door opened and footsteps stalked out.

"Bodie!" said Doyle. As much as he'd been wishing for Bodie to leave, he found himself appalled now that it was actually happening.

Footsteps returned, and Bodie's grumpy, pale face peeked around the corner to the bedroom. "I'm going to get you some. Have some patience, will you?"

Doyle grinned. "Bring me grapes, then, instead. At least that's healthy."

Bodie made a face, rather sarcastic-looking. "I'll bring you both."

##

Bodie licked ice cream off his spoon, and regarded Doyle closely. He _was_ eating it. He might go on about healthy food and "jam tarts" but he was eating it all the same.

Bodie had bought vanilla, and divided it scrupulously in half, found spoons, and delivered it. He'd bought the grapes, too (the kind without pips, in a fit of guilt), and left them on Doyle's bed, still in their bag.

But Doyle wasn't eating grapes. He was eating the ice cream, same as Bodie, with not a complaint coming from his mouth.

It did Bodie a world of good to see it. A contented-looking, if battered and bruised Doyle, eating ice cream like a kid, without any muttering.

Doyle looked sleepy again. The pills must be kicking in, because the strained look of pain was draining from his face.

Bodie finished his ice cream, and scraped his bowl with his teaspoon, and licked it. He looked at Doyle, who was still dawdling with his, eating it slowly, probably trying to make it last and make Bodie jealous—

A smile crinkled the edges of Bodie's face. He put down his bowl, and stretched, his hands laced behind his head, feeling better now, though he wasn't exactly sure why.

He still thought it was foolish of Doyle not to be more certain of his backup when Bodie couldn't take care of him. But it was also foolish, now that he thought about it, to cast recriminations at a man who was in pain he hadn't caused himself. He certainly couldn't have anticipated being hit by a car.

When Doyle was feeling better, there'd be plenty of time to pound it into his head that he needed to take more precautions. For now, Bodie just needed to take care of Doyle.

"Need anything else?" he asked.

Doyle was starting to look distinctly sleepy again, his half-finished bowl of ice cream sagging in his hands. He shook his head, and cracked a yawn he tried valiantly to suppress.

Bodie stood up, and walked over and took the dish from him, giving him a faintly scolding, teasing smile. "Couldn't even finish it, eh? Lightweight."

He reached for a handful of grapes and popped several in his mouth and chewed.

Doyle, settling back carefully to rest, his eyes drifting shut, cocked an amused glance at Bodie. "Leave me a few, mate," he said, before his eyes slid shut.

Bodie waved a hand in front of his face, but he wasn't faking. So Bodie ate the rest of his ice cream, and watched Doyle sleep, and constrained himself to only eating half the grapes.


End file.
